


Hope For Tomorrow

by Coldsaturn



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: I repeat: NOT romantic murphamy, M/M, Self-Harm, canon divergent from 2x08, may trigger someone, this is canon!murphamy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 06:34:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3239891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coldsaturn/pseuds/Coldsaturn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It doesn’t take a genius to realize that they're all suffering from Clarkitis: whatever passes through the head of their beloved leader is automatically absorbed by everyone as irrefutable truth. And Clarke is currently still surfing the wave of her victimism, while dribbling all her responsibilities by pushing the blame on him." </p><p>in which Murphy has a bad day, as always.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hope For Tomorrow

It happens almost instantly, as if a telepathic message had simultaneously struck all the delinquents. The exact moment Murphy enters the camp, after walking alone the miles of forest separating them from the dropship, he already knows what happened.

Murmurs follow him like a shadow, leaving him with a background hum in his ears that after five minutes already threatens to make his head explode.

Why the heck did he decide to come back? After Raven kindly shoved her little pretty dagger in his back, and he was sent to the second floor of the dropship to vomit on his own ingenuity, the idea of not returning to camp Jaha had made its way into his mind.

As he watched those four tin walls distorted through the veil of tears, Murphy had come to terms with the fact that all the steps he was convinced had been made forward, in fact had only turned round; he was not closer to being accepted as part of the group than he was when they had hanged him.

He had done all he could to help and prove his loyalty, even going openly against the Grounders and earning a knife in his leg, in addition to the torture he had endured just to help the handful of kids who, for some disturbing sense of humor, he was forced to call family. Yet, all the torture and all the sacrifices still yield a zero sum.

A couple of delinquents pass by and mutter something between them, glancing at him furtively. It doesn’t take a genius to realize that they're all suffering from Clarkitis: whatever passes through the head of their beloved leader is automatically absorbed by everyone as irrefutable truth. And Clarke is currently still surfing the wave of her victimism, while dribbling all her responsibilities by pushing the blame on him.

He had hoped she'd be different, but hey, he had made the same mistake with Raven. Maybe he’s not that good at judging women as he is at judging men. Or maybe he just has to accept once and for all that there are no people he can trust, and the error of judgment can be avoided by ceasing to try altogether. Some are made to be together with people, and some are not. Some are born with a face which inspires trust, and some will be misunderstood until the day of their death. It simply goes like this.

At 100 meters from his tent the delinquents eventually thin out enough to relieve the sense of persecution breathing on his shoulders. Murphy lifts the edge of fabric with a snap of his arm and he’s in his own little world, his lair among wolves. He drops on the thin mattress, pushing his toes against one heel at a time to pull out of the boots, soaked with rain. Murphy knows he should change before wetting the mattress and spending the night getting pneumonia, but his mind still gives the replay of Raven pointing a gun at him, and he just cannot gather the energy to move.

The void is easy to stare at when everything around him is painfully fixed in sharp focus. Waves of wind glide under the flaps of the tent, freezing his toes. Murphy closes his eyes, letting himself fall back against the mattress, waiting for gravity to suffocate him under the weight of all that's fucked up in his life.

Ok, it’s not so bad, really. There has been worse.

"Hey, do you remember that time you were hanged?" Murphy asks the ceiling of his tent, receiving only the distant noises of the delinquents and adults as response.

"Or that time the Grounders tortured you. That was a blast."

Murphy sniffles, spreading his arms and rubbing his fingertips against the rough pile blanket under him. Swallowing hurts and Murphy already knows what's going on, and he hates it to the point that he would like to shove a knife into his own arm. While the tears fill his eyes, hot and suffocating, Murphy counts the seconds that slowly pass, each added moment a victory against the temptation to harm himself.

Ironically, it was after falling to Earth that he was finally able to stop cutting himself. That first week had the taste of freedom from his own demons, as the cuts and burns were transformed into old scars on his light skin. Even when everything had gone to hell, the knowledge of being the only variable actively committed to keep him alive had silenced that voice in his head that screamed constantly to get even with the world, to receive what he really deserved for killing his own family.

Unlike those guys of the Sky Box that had ended up killing themselves before they could be floated, Murphy has always had an instinct for life too strong to put an end to his own suffering. It could be simple masochism though, that unhealthy curiosity to know what else can go wrong, how far his life can go to hell before he convinces himself it’s time to give up.

Tears fall down from the corners of his eyes and get lost in his hair. How long has it been since the last time Murphy has had the good fortune of living a single day without itching for the knife in his pocket? Without someone reminding him how much he is hated, how much he should hate himself, how far he is from the redemption that everyone gets without even looking for it, how hypocritical it is to be forgiven by those self-entitled bastards.

It seems like centuries pass with Murphy lying on the bed, the trails of tears drying up as scabs on his temples. "Maybe I should really go away," he murmurs, realizing that perhaps he should stop crying.

"Can I have your mattress then? It's much softer than mine."

Bellamy's voice comes from the inside of the tent and Murphy’s heart does a somersault in fright. Murphy lifts his head up, forgetting that he still has shining eyes and a red nose. Judging by Bellamy’s expression as he looks at him from the entrance of the tent, he knows very well what he was doing.

"What are you doing here?" Murphy asks, finding some of his voice. His slurred mouth and tight throat completes the picture of his face to the point that he’d like to hide under the blanket and ask him what the hell is the matter if he was crying. But Bellamy has still not said anything about it.

Bellamy looks behind him, peering out of the tent and then pulling the zipper to close down the entry. Murphy stares at Bellamy almost like he’s an alien as he takes off his jacket and leans it over Murphy’s backpack. This tent is not his home, but Bellamy is so comfortable in it that it’s close enough.

Bellamy approaches the edge of the bed and sits down, putting his head in his hands. "Finn is dead," he says, and Murphy literally stops breathing.

"What?"

"Finn is dead," Bellamy repeats, peeking at Murphy through his fingers. There's defeat in his voice, and that’s the detail that makes it clear to Murphy that what he’s saying is true.

Murphy sits up, leaning forward, "What do you mean that Finn is dead, what happened?"

"Clarke went to negotiate with the Grounders but it didn’t work, she killed him herself to save him from torture." Bellamy looks at his feet, the tendons of his hands pulled taut, and Murphy exhales, surprised by the empathy he feels toward the rebel leader. Murphy doesn’t miss the irony of the situation, given that Bellamy is one of the active players of his personal hell.

In the silence that falls immediately after, Murphy lets his mind run to Finn, summing up his entire person and those few moments they spent together talking. He’s never liked him, but he was not an asshole like the others either. He had felt as if they had established some sort of bond, after the "incident" at the Grounders’ village. Finn had looked at him differently after that day, and Murphy is quite certain that it had to do with the epiphany that it takes very little to justify the blood on one’s hands.

"I'm sorry it ended like that," he confesses after yet another interminable second of silence, but what he’s really thinking about is that he’s lost yet another person with whom he could have hoped to have some sort of understanding . "Must suck for Clarke," he concludes, just to distract himself from the sad part of his desolate life.

Bellamy nods, dropping his hands on his legs. Murphy is unable to tell whether the hump in his back has the weight of mourning, of yet another shitty day, disappointment, or anything else.

On second thought, however, "It must suck even more for Raven," and fuck if this doesn’t become another pretext to accuse him of something. If he had been used as a human sacrifice, perhaps the Grounders would have calmed down and Finn would still be alive. Murphy can already imagine the scene.

"I asked Abby to check on Raven, I'm not sure she won’t try to attack Clarke."

Add “concern” to the possible weights on his hump.

"Bellamy, why are you here?" Murphy asks again, when it seems clear that Bellamy has no intention to clarify his position.

It takes another pause before Bellamy inhales and decides to talk, "Because today I lost a partner, and I wanted to make sure I wasn’t about to lose another."

Murphy knows that Bellamy has turned around to look at him, he feels it as if he had his hand pressed on his face. The first wave Murphy feels rising from his stomach is warm and pleasant, it feels like hope and all those naive feelings he’s been trying to bleed out for years; the second is bitter from shame for himself, sour because of the confusion of not understanding the meaning of all this; finally the third one is like tasteless water, when he realizes that Bellamy is here out of pure selfishness. That, he understands well, and it’s like looking in the mirror.

"Relax Bellamy, I won’t ruin this day even more," says Murphy, barely holding back a smile. He wonders if the moral blackmail also goes for self-destructive activities.

Bellamy snorts what sounds like the laziest laughter Murphy has ever heard, and after a quick glance in his direction, he goes back being serious, "I'm not going to lie to you, Murphy; you're a loose cannon, and I cannot take the risk with you, but you're also the one I trust more now that Finn is gone. I know what you're capable of, I know your skills, and dammit if I need them. But I am constantly waiting for you to turn against us."

Murphy feels his eyebrows rise with astonishment. 100 points for the sincerity, no one can say that Bellamy Blake doesn’t know how to go straight to the point. Murphy clears his throat, uncomfortable for the unusually honest speech. A sleepover party with heart to heart conversations was not exactly what he would have thought he’d have, after the woeful news. But what Bellamy said gives Murphy a chance to really think about what he wants from the immediate future; does he have or not the intention of turning against the delinquents, especially now that they are all in the mindset of designating him as a scapegoat again?

Sincerity for sincerity, Murphy lays down on the bed, drawing back his arms and using them as a pillow. "I don’t know. I'd rather not waste time and energy in revenge, but you all work hard to piss me off. "

Bellamy tilts his head, silently agreeing. "A fuck-off would suffice."

"After hundreds of fuck-offs it would lose effect, and I’d find myself hanging from a tree again." Murphy sighs, trying to release the instinctive tension that builds up each time his brain remembers that morning. Dissimulation seems to work, and if Bellamy notices his stiffened muscles, he doesn’t show it.

"We have more important things to do than trying to kill you, Murphy, but you really work hard to make us lose it."

"Touché." Murphy grants, enjoying the conversation despite everything. Also, Bellamy may be the only delinquent who doesn’t seem to be angry to death with him, at the moment, and having a semblance of human relationship usually does wonders for Murphy’s sleep.

"I'm talking seriously. I'm short of a person, and I have no idea how much grief will upset others. I need someone with a lucid mind whom I can trust, so would you mind pausing your homicide plans for a little while? "

Apparently Bellamy’s strategy is going and breaking through the problem headfirst. Tact and discretion forgotten, Murphy finally has before him someone who speaks clearly and waves the knife in front of him, rather than waiting until he's turned on his back. But Bellamy is asking him to submit to everyone’s vexations on behalf of a group in which he no longer believes in, when Murphy was trying to convince himself to give up on everything and gain a bit of peace somewhere else.

"What will you give me in return?"

Bellamy looks up, momentarily busy thinking about some lever that will convince Murphy to do what he says. It’s also a rather tempting opportunity to know what Bellamy thinks of him, according to the type of bait he will put on the plate to move him.

"I can convince Clarke that you’re not the cause of all the ills of the world."

The tone suggests that Bellamy has realized the new fashion among delinquents, and the offer is already inviting enough to push Murphy towards the yes. While Murphy reflects on it--because Bellamy didn’t give him time to decide, therefore he’s supposed to give him an answer right away--Bellamy gets up, swaying slowly toward the entrance of the tent.

Murphy doesn’t open his mouth until Bellamy has already grabbed the flap of the zipper. "Until the other 47 come back."

"Deal," Bellamy says in one breath, barely waiting for Murphy to finish his sentence, "goodnight."

Bellamy pulls the zipper until there’s enough room to get out and disappears, not bothering to close the tent from which a chill wind starts blowing back inside. As soon as the echo of  Bellamy’s footsteps vanishes, it’s like turning off a switch and the night falls back on Murphy’s chest.

At the end of another day he’s still alone, still betrayed, still used. He turns on his right side, moving to slide under the blanket. It’s not worth it closing the tent when the thin flap of fabric is all that separates Murphy from another fit of tears, so he lets sleep swallow him like that, as he hugs himself on an uncomfortable bunk.

Maybe tomorrow will be better.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again to the awesome queen of awesomeness [Zoadgo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoadgo/pseuds/Zoadgo) for editing it. 
> 
> And obviously thanks to anyone who will read it, comment it, _kudos it_ , ignore it etc.  
> Feel totally free to contact me here or on [my tumblr](http://coldsaturn.tumblr.com)!


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